A Letter to God Following the Cancellation of the Rapture

You screwed me. Not in a literal sense -- though I suppose your omnipresence raises interesting questions about our shared levels of intimacy. But that's outside the point. You gave the Earth a terminal prognosis -- a window of certain death on May 21st -- and then on a whim, you just changed your mind and canceled it. So while you bask in praise over the next few weeks for saving millions of people, I also want you to remember that you made me look like a complete idiot. That's on your shoulders now and you have to live with that. I put a lot of stock into your promise of that rapture, and certainly didn't anticipate seeing anyone I know ever again. Yet here I am ... still, left with nowhere to go and standing on the opposite side of awkwardness from girlfriends, neighbors and coworkers, watching what's left of a bridge burn between us. I think I deserve to know what happened.

I was assured by billboards weeks ago that this was a done deal. Billboards, God.

It just occurred to me that praying looks a lot like defecating.

When a billboard tells me I can anticipate a La Quinta Inn in 12 miles, that advertisement and I enter a tacit trust with each other. I rely on the truth of that information to inform my decisions. If it fails to deliver on its promise, then the consequences could be catastrophic; I could fall asleep at the wheel or get lost or end up sleeping at a local campground. That's what's at stake. But you've made a mockery of that trust, and quite honestly, now I don't know what to believe anymore.

It's not just me you've disappointed either, take a minute to consider all the other people you've let down or hurt, indirectly, through me. I made a lot of promises I can't possibly keep. Did you know, for instance, that I agreed to be in a local play? Yeah. Not a good one either. You can't possibly imagine the hours and dedication that a play demands, and all without any real sense of accomplishment or financial reward. But I'm roped in now to three solid months of community theater, thanks to your wishy-washy approach to world-wide catastrophe.

God, dammit.

I quit recycling too. I gave it up completely. I stopped separating plastics or buying energy-conscious products because I assumed it was pointless now. Well it wasn't pointless, was it? Now I look like a dick. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to invite a woman to your house with whom you'd like to sexually fuse, and to have her notice that your bulbs are not florescent? I'll save the trouble of guessing and tell you that the answer is: Very. It's very embarrassing. Now I have the hassle of hiring someone to pick through my trash and re-separate everything. Plus, I genuinely have no idea how many six-pack rings I let slip into landfills and oceans, uncut, over the past two weeks. Your lies make me feel terrible about myself and that's not something that friends do to one another. Couples maybe, but not friends.

Oh, and I have kittens now. Not a kitten -- a litter. I never planned on owning a cat in my entire life and now I have eight. I collected them on a whim from a shelter because I canceled my Internet and had no medium through which to watch baby animals do devastatingly adorable things. Well it turns out that kittens are only adorable about two percent of the time and the other 98 percent they are shredding your cultural treasures and cramming poop in between your piano keys. They are shitting, allergy-inducing balls of clawed hatred.

"Someday I will eviscerate you."

Why would you design an animal like that? That seems inordinately cruel, even by Old Testament You standards. Right now, I'm letting them claw stuff and pee on each other out in the garden in the hopes that they will be eaten by hawks. That's on you. Given your infinite knowledge, however, I'm sure you're already aware, or are you too busy right now breaking promises to sick kids in hospitals to notice?

Incidentally, I now have to go back to a bunch of hospitals and tell cancer patients that, no, I can't hit home runs for each of them in my next league softball game. You and I both know I'm not a good enough hitter to fulfill that promise. When I tell them, it's going to be me watching their faces fall, not you; I have to wipe away those carcinogenic tears. That is, unless of course you could see your way clear of providing one tiny miracle for the sake of everyone, by killing each of them before the game. I think you owe me that much.

It would also help me save on gas.

And that right there is the worst part: You haven't promised any kind of recompense at all. Generally, when a band has to cancel a show, it makes some effort to compensate the fans. It reimburses everyone for tickets or plays a makeup performance. So imagine my shock over your unwillingness to reschedule the event, especially given your massive loyal following. In fact, all we've heard from you over the last few days has been silence. I can only assume that it was your intention all along to cancel doomsday and frankly, I'm disappointed with your strategy. You knew full well that most of the planet wasn't ready for a reckoning and that you could earn some admiration points by promising something awful and then reneging on it, essentially leaving everything exactly as it was and still coming out a hero. Well guess what? That trick only works once and New Coke already beat you to the punch about 25 years ago.

Apocalypse ca. 1985

All you've done is alienate the people who took you at your word, and you hurt your own credibility. I think you're going to find that we're a little more hesitant to believe you the next time you threaten a rapture. And because I can't trust you, that means the next time one of these rolls around I probably won't lie nearly as much to dying children or purchase animals on an impulse or any of the countless awesome things I did recently because your lies have effectively sucked all the fun out of the End of Days. I hope you're happy with yourself. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of cleaning up to do.